


The Goldberg Variations

by guildensterns



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, concert pianist au, is that a thing?, marco is a literal fanboy, reiner has a glove kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:42:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guildensterns/pseuds/guildensterns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want to meet him,” Reiner says. “He’ll leave via the stage door, right? Marco can get his autograph and I can get his number,” he winks.</p><p>“Reiner!” Marco exclaims.  “You can’t just…seduce a world famous pianist!”</p><p>The concert pianist au that literally nobody asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Goldberg Variations

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even watch SNK yikes. I listened to a lot of Glenn Gould while writing this so. Check it.

There are hundreds of tuxedoed old men swarming around him and the theatre smells like mothballs and the seats feel as though they are about to fall through in the centre.  Reiner sniffs disdainfully at the stale air and steals a glance to his left, where Jean is leaning against Marco’s shoulder with his eyes closed while Marco clutches a leaflet in his hands and stares excitedly at the stage.

“Why did I agree to this again?” Reiner asks.

Jean opens one eye and looks his way. “Because I need someone to bitch to during the interval. Also you owe me for throwing up in my bathtub last week.”

“It’s _Bertholdt Hoover_ ,” Marco stage whispers. “Why are you two not more excited? Did you even watch those YouTube clips I sent you?”

“Uhh,” Reiner and Jean say in unison. Reiner hadn’t even opened the email, let alone clicked the link. Marco rolls his eyes.

“You’ll see,” he says. “You’ll see what I’m talking about. He’s only our age but he’s already mastered all of the classics and added his own twists to them. You should hear him play Beethoven! And oh my God, his Bach is to die for. People are calling him the new Glenn Gould!”

“I have no idea what any of that means, babe,” Jean sighs and boops Marco’s nose with his index finger. Marco shrugs and clasps his hands together in his lap, almost vibrating with a happy, nervous energy.

Reiner looks at the fond grin on Jean’s face and says, “You two are like, the grossest.” The man next to him berates him as the curtains are swept aside and the lights dim. Reiner scowls. He can’t believe he agreed to this. Jean is going to owe him _bi_ _g_ time.

The stage is empty bar a huge, fancy piano situated slightly to the right. The room is awash with loud whispers that sound more like a light breeze, and Reiner can’t make out any of the words. A lone spotlight lands to the left of the stage. The whispering stops. Reiner finds himself holding his breath and clutching at the edge of his seat. There is a sudden tension in the room. It feels almost dangerous.

Then a man appears at the edge of the stage. He is merely a shadow until he steps into the spotlight, and even then, from this distance, all Reiner can make out is that he is exceedingly tall and spindly, dark haired and tanned. He walks towards the piano and the spotlight follows him, only serving to highlight his slightly awkward, self conscious gait. He stops, glances out at the audience for no more than a second—and Reiner notices that his face is long, angular and shadowy—before taking a seat at the piano and resting his hands upon the keys.

Reiner waits. He hasn’t breathed in over a minute.

The man is hunched over, but then he leans back, almost excessively so, and Reiner sees his right hand move just a millisecond before a note flows out across the room and he feels all of his breath rush out at once. He hears a similar sound to the left of him, presumably from Marco.

The piece is slow at first, slow and quiet, then fast and loud, then quiet and fast and loud and slow until Reiner can’t keep up anymore. Sometimes the man is subdued, curled in on himself and the piano, other times his body flows with the music and his head and shoulders sway as he slams his hands viciously down onto the keys.

Reiner can’t even say he particularly cares for the music; he would never listen to it on CD and he’d change stations if it came on the radio. But hearing and seeing at the same time is something quite different. He feels it deep in his bones, the adrenaline and the electricity of this young man pouring his soul into the instrument. All of a sudden, Reiner finds that he doesn’t regret coming out tonight. In fact, he’s kind of enjoying himself.

The interval comes too soon and Reiner struggles to snap himself out of a daze. Marco is grinning so hard his dimples outshine his freckles, and even Jean looks a little bit blown away.

“Wow,” Reiner says. He reaches out and snatches the leaflet away from Marco, who continues to smile so much that his eyes begin to water. Reiner looks down at the leaflet. Bertholdt Hoover. 22 years old. Born in Berlin, Germany. Studied at the Hochschule für Musik Köln, blah blah blah. Reiner flips the page and feels a fluttering sensation begin in his stomach. There is a small, professionally taken black and white photo of Bertholdt in the upper right hand corner of the page. His eyes look sad but there is a slight upward tilt to his lips, and the photographer has captured him at just the right angle so that a dark shadow falls across his left cheekbone and emphasises the sharpness of his jaw. Reiner can’t tell what colour his eyes are but he appreciates their ovular shape and the little creases that fan out to the side.

Reiner is in love.

“Marco,” he says, making a decision. “We should go backstage after the second half.”

Marco’s eyes widen. “Wh-what?”

“Yeah, what?” Jean repeats.

“I want to meet him,” Reiner says. “He’ll leave via the stage door, right? Marco can get his autograph and I can get his number,” he winks.

“Oh my God.”

“Reiner!” Marco exclaims. “You can’t just…seduce a world famous pianist!”

“Why not?”

“Because! Because…you just can’t!” Marco splutters. “Anyway, I hear he’s very reclusive. He’s never even given an interview, let alone hooked up with some creep lurking at the stage door!”

Reiner snorts. “Alright, alright, chill out Bodt. I was just kidding. Mostly.”

“We should still get you that autograph though, babe,” Jean says, and Reiner just about resists the urge to do a fist pump.

“We can try, I guess,” Marco says, but he’s smiling again.

\---

An hour later the three of them are standing in the rain sharing one undersized umbrella and Reiner is beginning to regret his decision as he feels another rivulet drip from the umbrella down the back of his neck. Jean looks like a cat left outside all night and Marco is starting to suffer from full body shivers.

“Maybe we should…” Jean starts.

“No,” Reiner says. Marco smiles even as a raindrop lands in his eye and he flinches.

About ten minutes later, a tall man in a long black coat shuffles out of the stage door while struggling to pull a pair of green fingerless gloves onto his hands. He has a plush burgundy scarf wrapped twice around his neck and a grey bobble hat pulled lopsidedly across his head. Little tufts of brown hair poke out here and there, flat against his forehead. Reiner swears he feels his heart skip a beat.

“B-Bertholdt! Mr Hoover!” Marco sputters. The man looks up with wide eyes. “I was wondering if I could get your autograph? Please? If it’s no trouble?”

Bertholdt looks shocked. He stares for a moment before seeming to get a hold of himself. “Um. Yes! Of course. Wh-what do you want me to sign?” He is soft spoken and his voice is light and tremulous. There’s a faint German accent there that Reiner can only identify because of the odd Skype session with some distant relatives. Reiner finds himself wondering what Bertholdt would sound like in bed…

He watches as Bertholdt signs Marco’s leaflet with a Sharpie. His fingers are long and nimble and three of them are covered in band aids. He finishes with a flourish and says, “There you go.”

“Thanks!” Marco squeaks, looking for all the world like he might faint there and then. Jean slips a hand under his elbow to steady him.

“He’s a really big fan,” he explains.

“Well, thank you,” Bertholdt smiles. “That means a lot.” Reiner holds his breath as Bertholdt suddenly looks his way. “Did you want me to sign anything?” the man asks. He isn’t making eye contact, Reiner realises, but staring resolutely at a spot somewhere around Reiner’s collarbone.

“Oh, that’s okay,” he replies. “I don’t really have anything for you to sign, anyway.” Bertholdt nods. “You were really great in there by the way,” Reiner blurts out. “I mean, I didn’t think I even liked that kind of music until I heard you play.”

Bertholdt blushes and looks down at Reiner’s feet. “Thank you,” he says meekly, but Reiner can see the tips of his ears turning pink and the smile pulling at his lips.

The four of them shuffle their feet for a moment, none of them wanting to make another move, but eventually Jean coughs into his hand and says, “Well, we’d better be off,” taking Marco’s hand in his. “It was nice meeting you, Bertholdt. You’re really talented.” He turns and pulls a bewildered Marco along with him, tossing a wave over his shoulder that Bertholdt shyly returns. “Later, Reiner!” Jean calls belatedly.

“Uh…” Reiner says. “Yeah. I’m Reiner. Nice to meet you,” he laughs, and Bertholdt chuckles softly in return.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he says, and finally looks Reiner right in the eye. His eyes are forest green, Reiner notices straight away, and they sparkle slightly under the lamplight.

“Are you headed home now?” he asks. He isn’t usually so forward, but he feels as though he won’t get another chance any time soon with a touring pianist.

“Um, probably. I mean, I’m staying at a hotel, but yeah. I was just going to get the subway.”

“Awesome! Mind if I tag along for a while?” Reiner asks. Now or never, he figures.

Bertholdt tilts his head to the side and looks at him consideringly. “Uh, okay. Sure,” he says after a minute.

Reiner grins. “Great!”

\---

Reiner persuades him to grab a coffee at an all night diner first, even though it’s nearly midnight and neither of them really needs the caffeine. They sit opposite each other with their knees touching and Reiner watches as Bertholdt takes tiny sips of his black coffee, delicately holding the mug between two gloved hands.

He learns that Bertholdt has been playing the piano for as long as he can remember, that his mother began teaching him when he was very, very young, but he never met his father and his mother died when he was twelve. Reiner feels bad for bringing it up, but Bertholdt tells him it’s fine, that he likes talking about her. He taps his fingers on the table as he speaks, playing out little rhythms and sometimes making patterns in some spilled salt.

Reiner tells him about his job with a construction company, that he actually has a degree in architecture but wants to get his hands dirty before he takes on a cushy office job. Bertholdt smiles at that.

They talk for an hour or two before Bertholdt yawns and says he should really be getting back to the hotel. He has a plane to catch tomorrow, after all. “You can come with me though, if you want,” he says shyly. “Back to the hotel, I mean.”

Reiner smiles. “I’d like that.”

\---

“So, do you do this often?” Reiner asks. “Bring men back to your hotel room after a concert?”

“Wh-what?” Bertholdt exclaims. “No!”

Reiner laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m just messing with you. I’m glad you brought me back, though.”

Bertholdt smiles as he unlocks the door to his room. “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess at the moment.” Reiner steps inside and realises the other man wasn’t lying. There’s a suitcase in the middle of the floor with absolutely nothing in it. All of its contents seem to be strewn across the room, on the bed, on the desk, dangling from the en suite door, hanging from a lampshade, and stuffed haphazardly into various drawers. “I still haven’t packed,” Bertholdt says lamely. He picks up a huge, disorganised stack of sheet music and dumps it into the suitcase. Then he sweeps everything from the bed onto the floor, straightens out the duvet, and gestures for Reiner to sit there. “Do you want anything to drink? I actually only have water and uh, ginger ale,” he chuckles.

“I’m good,” Reiner grins, plopping down onto the bed and taking off his shoes so that he can lie down properly. “Come sit with me,” he says.

Bertholdt stares at him for a moment, and then he bends down to take off his own shoes before unravelling his scarf and throwing it behind him. He removes his coat and hat until he’s wearing what he was wearing during the concert, a simple black suit, white shirt and dark green tie, but he keeps the gloves on, and his fingers twitch at his sides. Reiner licks his lips and pats the space on the bed beside him.

The other man advances slowly, but he doesn’t seem as nervous as Reiner has grown used to him being. When he reaches the foot of the bed, he takes off his tie and blazer and rolls up his shirt sleeves, before climbing onto the bed and lying down next to Reiner. He smells like clean sweat and tea tree soap and oak wood and Reiner smiles as he inhales. They both stare at the ceiling for a moment until Bertholdt turns over and Reiner can feel his breath on his neck.

“Reiner,” Bertholdt says. He doesn’t say anything else, but he lifts himself up onto his elbows and Reiner can suddenly see his face above his. Bertholdt’s cheeks are flushed and Reiner thinks he is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. He closes his eyes as Bertholdt leans down and feels foreign lips touch his own, warm and slightly chapped and tasting vaguely of bitter coffee. Bertholdt’s long fingers come to rest at the base of Reiner’s skull and he groans into the kiss and arches up as Bertholdt finally gets one leg over and straddles him. They kiss slowly and keep their hands in mostly innocent places until Reiner flips them and moves his ministrations to Bertholdt’s neck, where he presses open mouthed kisses and revels in the tiny breathless moans that emerge from the other man’s lips. His hands move to Bertholdt’s hips, while Bertholdt’s long arms reach Reiner’s ass and grope him through too many layers of clothing.

“Clothes,” Reiner mutters between kisses. “Off.” Bertholdt murmurs in agreement and begins to unbutton his own shirt, hands remaining dextrous even as the rest of his body seems to melt into the bed. He starts to peel his gloves off but Reiner gasps out, “No, keep the gloves,” loving the feel of the wool contrasted with Bertholdt’s warm fingertips against his skin, and Bertholdt obliges until he’s completely naked save for the gloves.

Reiner wonders what good deeds he did in a past life to deserve the sight laid out before him.

As soon as he’s quickly stripped off his clothes he lunges back onto the bed and kisses Bertholdt hard on the mouth before moving slowly down the other man’s body, nipping here and there and loving the little choked off moans Bertholdt makes whenever he arches off the bed. He gets an arm across Bertholdt’s hips and a hand at the base of his cock before he licks tentatively at the head, feels Bertholdt shudder beneath him and takes him in all at once. He is overwhelmed by the musky scent of Bertholdt and the way his thigh muscles quiver beneath Reiner’s chest. Bertholdt keeps groaning long and low and quiet as Reiner bobs his head, and suddenly Bertholdt has two hands on Reiner’s head, not particularly forceful but rough all the same. Reiner feels the tips of his fingers press into his scalp and moans around Bertholdt’s cock as the wool of Bertholdt’s gloves creates a delicious friction at the base of his skull.

He realises he is thrusting against the sheets, so turned on by Bertholdt’s reactions that he feels vaguely as though he’s losing his mind.

“Reiner,” Bertholdt moans above him. “I’m gonna—” he chokes at the end of the sentence and stuffs a gloved hand into his mouth to stifle any noise he was about to make, though Reiner still hears the low, guttural sound he makes as he comes. Reiner swallows and wipes the drool from his chin as he sits back on his haunches, staring down at a thoroughly debauched Bertholdt Hoover.

Bertholdt sits up too, albeit far more sluggishly. He regards Reiner from hooded eyes, and then very, very slowly removes the glove from his right hand. He places his left hand at the back of Reiner’s neck, and then wraps his right around Reiner’s cock and begins to jerk him off, and _hard_ at that. Reiner groans as Bertholdt mouths at his neck, feels a hand tightening in his hair and manages to get his hands on Bertholdt’s broad shoulders, not knowing what else to do with them. He can hear himself moaning, Bertholdt’s name and “fuck” and “shit” and “fuck, Bertl” and “oh God” and “Jesus Christ.”

He loses track of time, loses himself in the feel of Bertholdt’s hands until eventually his body thrums with the imminence of it all and as Bertholdt presses a half there kiss at his hairline Reiner comes all over his hand. “Fuck,” he says, and they both collapse back onto the bed. Bertholdt mumbles something about cleaning up but neither of them do anything about it, and eventually Reiner reaches over to turn the light off and gathers Bertholdt up in his arms until his chest is pressed up against the other man’s back. They pass out simultaneously to the sound of sirens in the distance and a cat meowing in the adjacent alleyway.

\---

When he awakes, Reiner can feel himself being watched. He opens his eyes slowly and blinks at the light streaming in from the windows. He can already tell it’s too early to be up. He turns and looks towards the end of the bed, where Bertholdt is standing in his coat, hat and scarf, looking suddenly younger than his twenty two years in the grey light of the morning.

“I have to go now,” he says sadly. “If I miss this plane then my manager will kill me.”

“Where are you going?” Reiner asks.

“L.A.,” Bertholdt says quietly. “Only for a few weeks, though. Then I’ll be back in New York.”

“Oh,” Reiner says. He feels the hope blooming in his chest at those words but tries to quash it.

“I—” Bertholdt says, then stops. He looks towards the window for a moment, then back at Reiner. “I could give you my number, if you want. We could—” he stops again, looks down at the floor before continuing to speak. “We could text, while I’m gone? And then—then we could—meet up, maybe? When I come back?”

Reiner feels the blush in his own cheeks and ignores it. “You’re adorable, you know that?” he says. Bertholdt looks taken aback, but doesn’t say anything. “Of course I want your number,” Reiner continues. “And of course I want to see you again when you come back to New York. I want to see you as much as possible. All the time. I even—” he pauses. “I even have this insane urge to go to L.A. with you right now, but I think that’d probably be a bad idea, huh?”

Bertholdt chuckles. “Probably,” he says quietly, but he’s looking at Reiner instead of at the floor, now. He picks up his suitcase, which is miraculously packed. “I’ll let the hotel guys know there’s still someone using this room. You should be able to sleep in until check out time,” he smiles.

“And then do the walk of shame through the lobby,” Reiner laughs, and Bertholdt laughs with him, eyes crinkling.

“I’m really glad I met you, Reiner,” he says. He quickly scribbles his number down onto a piece of scrap paper and places it on the bedside table before leaning down to press a light kiss to Reiner’s lips. “I’ll see you in a few weeks,” he whispers.

“See you soon, Bertholdt,” Reiner whispers back.


End file.
